


as good a place to fall as any

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:12:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant Ward is fifteen when John Garrett saves him. Garrett gives him a second chance, and Ward offers him everything in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as good a place to fall as any

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for (vaguely consensual?) physical abuse and non-graphic rape.
> 
> Also, my usual excessive use of run-ons.
> 
> Title from "Bedroom Hymns" by Florence and the Machine.

Ward’s fifteen when Garrett takes him from the hellhole he’d been forced to call a home. He’s grateful, terrified, throwing himself into his training with an almost rabid fervor. He works hard, fights harder, and every bruise and sprain is worth it for the look of pride on Garrett’s face.  
  


* * *

  
He’s sixteen the first time Garrett hits him. Ward had lost a fight, or blown his cover on a training mission, or— he doesn’t remember, and it doesn’t matter.  
  
(He remembers the flat of Garrett’s palm against his cheek, the stinging flesh, the shock of the pain but above all the look in his eyes, telling him _this is for your own good_ , telling him _you deserve this_.)  
  
(He remembers believing it, and he’s never forgotten.)  
  


* * *

  
He’s eighteen when Garrett tells him about Hydra, about freedom from freedom, about everything S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know, can’t know, until it’s too late for them to stop it. “Cut off one head, two more’ll take its place, yeah— but if we can avoid losing that head in the first place, well. Better for everyone.” He pauses, considers, then: “Well, except maybe them.”  
  
Ward’s eyes darken. “So what are you asking?”  
  
“I’m asking you to choose,” Garrett says, and his casual temperament flickers for an instant as he adds, “And I’d recommend choosing wisely.”  
  
“You can take your hand off the gun,” Ward tells him, nonchalant, and Garrett grins, keeping his hand precisely where it is— on the gun tucked into the back of his pants, carefully concealed, but nothing slips past Ward. “I’m quicker on the draw than you, anyway, old man,” and Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”  
  
“Maybe it is,” Ward offers, grin sharp as talons as he takes a step forward, murmurs, “In the meantime…Hail Hydra.”  
  
Garrett’s fingers uncurl from the gun, wrap around Ward’s biceps, deliberate, gaze glinting with pride, with something almost like hunger. “Hail Hydra.”  
  


* * *

  
But their story doesn’t start, certainly doesn’t _end_ there. It’s fragmented, fractured, just like them: skin etched with scars, Garrett’s with metal, and that’s not the half of it.  
  


* * *

  
Ward’s sixteen, still sixteen, only sixteen the first time he asks Garrett to hit him. Averts his gaze, _knows_ he fucked up, knows he deserves the punishment because this is part of his training, part of who he is.  
  
Garrett obliges, and Ward ends up pressed to the ground, tasting blood, fingers dancing along bruised ribs, and when he glances up he notices the bulge in Garrett’s trousers, the flush in his cheeks.  
  
Garrett tells him to get cleaned up, there’s someone he wants Grant to meet— and there it is, _Grant_ , and he can’t remember the last time Garrett ( _John_ ) used his first name. Ward hears him draw an unsteady breath and then he’s speaking again, telling him about an Agent Coulson, but Ward’s not listening, has a feeling Garrett himself isn’t hearing a word he’s saying.  
  
It feels like ages until Garrett hits him again, and Ward is salivating with _want_ long before his mouth fills with blood.  
  


* * *

  
He’s seventeen the first time he sinks to his knees, looks up at Garrett through his lashes and says _please_ , says _let me do this, for me, for you_.  
  
Garrett won’t give him permission but he won’t say no, tells him if he wants it so much, he’d better take it, and Ward doesn’t think twice. He unzips Garrett’s pants, takes him between his lips, and he’s never done this before, never had anyone touch him like this. He does everything he imagines he’d like, adds an edge of teeth, and Garrett’s fingers tighten in Ward’s hair as his mouth fills with warmth.  
  
He swallows, licks salt from his lips and gets to his feet as Garrett tucks himself back in. Ward’s hard, but he knows better than to ask— murmuring instead, “Was that okay, sir?” and Garrett’s satisfied expression is answer enough.  
  
“Oh, and sir,” Ward adds, deceptively detached, “I think I misplaced the knife you gave me,” and it’s like flipping a switch, the fist against his face anything but a surprise.  
  
Garrett lets him leave, and Ward is hardly alone for a moment before he’s got a hand down his pants, jerking off with the memory of Garrett’s knuckles imprinted across his cheek.  
  


* * *

  
It’s a quick fix, the punishment he’s grown accustomed to. When May learns of his deception— of her, at least, not the truth, not what _matters_ — he asks her to hit him, because he deserves it, when maybe he means he wants it. It’s hardly a punishment at all, anymore: somewhere along the way the wires got crossed, “training” with cruelty and rewards and desires he still won’t own up to.  
  
( _If Garrett were here_ , he thinks, and stops, because near-zero contact, because thinking like that is too tempting, too dangerous, and he can’t, he _can’t_ blow his cover now.) The shadows remain their home for the time being, but _soon_ , Garrett had assured him; soon they’ll step into the light, and the only thing that frightens Ward more than returning to his S.O. is the thought of facing himself.  
  


* * *

  
He’s eighteen the first time Garrett reciprocates, and there’s some twisted sense of morality in that, Ward thinks; thinks until he can’t think anymore, lost in the feel of Garrett’s hand on his cock, the twist of his wrist, the desperation in his own voice as he begs for release.  
  
It’s so much better than his own hand, than everything he’d imagined. It’s the first time he’s let anyone else touch him like this, because he may be everyone’s type but that doesn’t mean they’re his. He’d been tempted once or twice (the cute girl in statistics, the boy who’d reminded him too much of his brother), but he’d always think of Garrett instead, grin like razors as he’d coax Ward closer to the edge (with his hands, his tongue, his cock, and that last makes Ward tremble with want)— in short, no one else comes close.  
  
It’s odd, those hands on his thighs, lips on his chest, touches that offer pleasure instead of pain. He asks for more and Garrett obliges, and it’s so much like the first time he asked to be hit; even murmurs, “C’mon, Grant, come for me,” and for the first time he thinks _I deserve this_ with his skin and dignity intact.  
  
Garrett still hits him (hits him more, if anything, because _you can take it_ , because _you asked for it_ ), but it’s with the promise of something sweeter, something to dull the pain— or, maybe, to make it so much worse.  
  


* * *

  
He’s twenty when Garrett starts teaching him to hold up under torture— and that’s torture in itself. “Isn’t twenty a bit old?” he wonders, but Garrett surveys him grimly, explains, “Had to make sure you were strong enough to survive it first.”  
  
He survives it, but only barely. He’s exhausted at the end of every session, half-dead or desperate or both; Garrett fucks him afterward, and it’s its own sort of reward, a new quick fix. He tells Skye, “It’s real fun,” and he’s only half-kidding, remembering precisely the way Garrett would leave bruises along his hips, an ache with a different echo than split lips, broken ribs.  
  


* * *

  
(He’s nineteen the first time Garrett forces him.  
  
He tells himself he wants this, and he can’t deny it, not entirely; tells himself he deserves it and, well, why should this time be any different than all the others?  
  
He could fight back— he’s taller now, stronger— could maybe even _win_ , but Garrett’s hands fumble at his skin and he feels sick, feels dirty, and he knows he’d still be powerless.)  
  


* * *

  
By the time he joins Coulson’s team, he’s the best of the best. The person he is with them— with _her_ — it’s not him, but maybe, he thinks, maybe it could be.  
  
He does feel something for Skye, something he hasn’t felt in a long time, probably hasn’t let himself feel. It doesn’t hurt like it does with Garrett, pain and pleasure inextricably bound up into one, but then, anything he feels for her is less than a shadow creeping across the truth of who he is.  
  
“That straight version of you is somethin’ else,” Garrett chuckles, and Ward can’t help but feel the familiar rush of pride; still, when the conversation turns to Skye, Garrett’s tone mocking, there’s the inescapable sense of doubt. Maybe he’s fooling himself, maybe it comes with the deep cover territory, maybe it was inevitable— and maybe, maybe he feels nothing at all, fabricating emotional attachments because he knows he shouldn’t, because even years later, he still craves it. He wants Garrett to punish him, to push him to the edge— hell, to push him _over_.  
  
He loves Garrett, he does, in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing his mind. “I owe him everything,” he tells Raina, and not once does he doubt the truth in those words.  
  
“We all have our weaknesses,” Garrett says. “The heart wants what it wants. You can’t control everything.” The words cut deeper than he knows, or maybe he knows exactly; even if Ward can’t control everything, he’d always imagined Garrett could, and he falls back into old patterns easily, letting him take control the only way he knows how.  
  
Garrett beats him to a pulp, demands, “Make me believe,” and Ward can’t deny the spark in his gut at the sight of Garrett’s knuckles painted with his blood.  
  
(Garrett drives a fist into Ward’s stomach, splits his skin, and still his hand on the back of Ward’s neck feels like home— or the closest he’ll ever let himself come.)


End file.
